The next morning early, before breakfast, Susan ran out on the front porch to view the new day. Grandfather had suggested that she go look for “fairy tablecloths” in the grass, but Susan more than half suspected that he wanted her out of the way while he finished shaving. She couldn’t help whisking about the room and it did make his hand shake.

Susan watched two rosy little clouds grow fainter and fainter in the pale blue morning sky, and then disappear. She leaned over the porch railing and stared down into the bed of gay portulaca that Grandmother tended with such care both night and morning.

“Grandmother’s flowers,” thought she, smiling at the bright little cups, all wet with dew. “They are awake and I am awake. I guess everybody is awake now. But where is Snuff? He’s always the first one up.”

Susan turned to go in search of her playmate when a flutter of white caught her eye. On one of the porch posts a slip of paper had been fastened with a common white pin. In a twinkling Susan was on the rail and down again, paper in hand.

“Grandfather, Grandfather, here’s a letter,” she called, and, running through the house, she gave the paper to Grandfather, just settling himself at the breakfast table.

“Hum,” said Mr. Whiting, when he had read the slip and studied it backward and forward. “This is a strange thing. It’s for you, Susan. Look at this, Grandmother.”

On a jagged slip of wrapping-paper, printed in uneven letters that slanted downhill, were the words:

“A pressent for the little miss on the school-house steps.”

“A present for me?” said Susan, delighted, as Grandfather read it aloud. “I’ll go straight down and get it. Shall I?”

“No, no. Eat your breakfast first,” answered Grandfather, who was not nearly so pleased at the idea of a present as Susan thought he ought to be.

In fact, over Susan’s head, he and Grandmother exchanged glances which seemed to say they did not altogether understand what had happened.

But Susan saw nothing of this, and, breakfast over, she and Grandfather started at once down the lane to see what her mysterious present might be.

“Grandfather, where is Snuff?” asked Susan. “I haven’t seen him this morning.”

“No more have I,” answered Grandfather.

He whistled again and again, and Susan called, but no Snuff appeared in answer to these familiar signals.

On the school porch lay a dark bundle. It was a large bundle, and it moved slightly from side to side. As they drew nearer they heard a wail, and Susan immediately recognized the cry.

“It’s Gentilla,” she called out. “It’s Gentilla crying.”

Yes, it was Gentilla, so securely wrapped in a big gray shawl that had been wound tightly about her and pinned in place that she could move neither hands nor feet, and could only rock herself from side to side as she lay on the hard boards of the porch floor.

Grandfather and Susan helped her out of the blanket, and Gentilla tried to tell her story, but all she could say was:

“All gone away,—riding.”

She rolled her big gray eyes and waved her tiny hand, and that was the best that she could do to explain her presence there so early in the morning.

There was a strange look on Grandfather’s face, and he thrust his hands in his pockets and pursed up his mouth as if to whistle as he stared at the little schoolhouse. For from every window the panes of glass had been neatly removed, and a glance within showed that the old stove had disappeared also.

“You take Gentilla up to the house, Susan,” said he. “I’m going down the road a ways.”

“Yes, I will,” said Susan. “But, Grandfather, where is my present?”

“Perhaps Gentilla is the present,” called back Mr. Whiting, already striding down the hill.

And half an hour later when he returned to the house, Grandfather sank into a chair, put the tips of his fingers together, and began to laugh.

“Do tell me what it is all about,” said Grandmother, coming out on the porch, duster in hand. “The children are over at Mrs. Vane’s, and they came up here with such a story that I don’t know what to think:—Gentilla wrapped in a shawl, and panes of glass gone, and I don’t know what all.”

Grandfather nodded in agreement as she spoke.

“Yes, sir,” said he. “They told the truth. The glass is gone and the stove is gone from the schoolhouse, and what is more, the gypsies themselves have gone from the grove. They have cleared out bag and baggage, and have left Gentilla to us.”

“Do you mean to tell me that they have deserted that child?” demanded Grandmother. “What kind of people are they, anyway, to do such a thing as that?”

“Gypsies,” answered Grandfather tersely. “She wasn’t their own child, you know. And they were always jealous of the way we treated her. I suppose they argued that, if we were so fond of her, we would be glad of the chance to take care of her. I’ve telephoned, so that people will be on the lookout for them, but the chances are we shall never hear of them again.”

“I wouldn’t want Gentilla to go back to them after the way they have treated her,” said Grandmother indignantly.

“No, except that she is one of them, after all,” answered Mr. Whiting. “Well, we will keep the little girl for a time. We needn’t be in any great hurry to decide what to do. At any rate, Susan will enjoy a visit from her.”

And that Susan proceeded to do at once. She and Phil and Gentilla spent a long and happy day together.

But that night, with Gentilla tucked snugly in the big spare-room bed across the hall, Susan was so excited she couldn’t sleep. She twisted and turned and tossed, and at last pattered downstairs for a drink of water.

In the kitchen, to her surprise, she found Grandfather feeding Snuff, who had been missing all day. Snuff ate his good supper as if he were starving. He was covered with mud, an old rope was tied round his neck, and he was so stiff and lame he could scarcely hobble.

Susan waited until Grandfather had seen Snuff safely at rest upon a comfortable bed of straw in the barn. Then upstairs they went together, and Grandfather lay down on the outside of Susan’s bed beside her and took her hand in his.

“Where do you think Snuff was all day, Grandfather?” began Susan. “I wish he could talk and tell us.”

“So do I,” said Grandfather heartily, “Did I ever tell you about a dog I had when I was a little boy—”

“Yes, you did,” interrupted Susan. “Thank you, Grandfather, but I know all about him. His name was Nick and he was black all over with not a white spot anywhere. Grandfather, do you think Mr. James Lee took the stove from the schoolhouse?”

“I think he did,” answered Grandfather briefly.

“And the glass out of the windows?”

“And the glass out of the windows.”

“What will he do with them?”

“Sell them, I think,” said Grandfather.

“But they didn’t belong to him?” questioned Susan.

“No; they belonged to the town.”

“Then he stole!” exclaimed Susan, pulling her hand from Grandfather’s so that she might shake an accusing finger in his face.

“It looks that way,” admitted Mr. Whiting.

“But you wouldn’t steal.”

“I hope not,” returned Grandfather. “But you must remember, Susan, that the gypsies don’t go to school or to church, and so they don’t know the difference between right and wrong as well as the people who do.”

“They ought to go,” said Susan morally. “I go. Everybody ought to go. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to teach Gentilla Bible stories right away to-morrow. How long will she stay here? Forever?”

“No, not forever. I don’t know how long. Now you must go to sleep, or Grandmother will be up here after us.”

“I will,” promised Susan drowsily. “But, you know, Grandfather, I think they took Snuffy, too, and that is where he was all day. Don’t you?”

Grandfather nodded in the darkness. He had been thinking the same thought, but he tiptoed out of the room without another word, and a moment later Susan fell asleep.

Early the next morning she began to train Gentilla. She made her say “thank you,” and “please,” and “excuse me,” until the poor little visitor was so bewildered that she couldn’t answer the simplest question. She forced her to listen to Bible stories which she didn’t know very well herself, so poky and long-drawn-out that, if Gentilla hadn’t had a happy way of falling into little cat-naps whenever the story was too dull to bear, I don’t know what would have become of her.

In her own behavior Susan was so moral and proper, and so unlike her own lovable little self, that Grandmother, though she didn’t say a word, couldn’t help thinking, “If this keeps up, I shall have to go away on a visit. Only I know it won’t last.”

And it didn’t last. It was too unnatural. Of course it didn’t last.

After dinner Grandmother asked Susan to go to the store for two spools of black thread.

“Your Grandfather has torn the pocket in his coat,” said she. “Gentilla will wait with me until you come back, for she walks slowly and I am in a hurry.”

“Yes, Grandmother,” said Susan, primly, hoping they were admiring her manners.

She walked quickly, and was back in a short time with two spools of white thread.

“But I told you black,” said Grandmother. “I can’t mend your Grandfather’s coat with white thread. I will keep these spools, but you will have to go back for black ones. Remember what I want it for, and then you won’t make another mistake.”

Gentilla, really enjoying herself alone with Grandmother, sat on the shady porch, comfortably holding Flip.

The sun was hot, and the road was dusty, and it is not pleasant when one is trying to be an example to be told that one has made a mistake. Susan felt aggrieved.

“You said white spools, Grandmother,” she answered bluntly. “I know you said white.”

Now this was not at all like Susan (perhaps the strain of being an example was beginning to tell) and Mrs. Whiting stared at her in surprise.

“Do you mean to be saucy, Susan?” she asked, after a pause. “Go on your errand at once, without another word.”

Susan turned on her heel and swallowed hard. She wanted to scream, or throw something at somebody, but she didn’t dare do anything but walk slowly down the lane on her errand.

When she returned, Grandmother took the spools and went into the house. Gentilla, still cuddling Flip, looked up with a smile, but she received a black look in return.

“You can’t hold Flip,” said Susan, glowering at her. “You may have Snowball, but Flip is mine.” And she roughly seized Flippy to pull her out of Gentilla’s arms.

But Gentilla was not a gypsy child for nothing. If Susan could pull and slap, she could scratch and kick. So when Grandmother, at sounds of the scuffle, looked out of the window, she saw the model teacher and her pupil engaged in a hand-to-hand battle, with innocent Flip nearly torn in two between them.

“Susan Whiting!” called Grandmother.

And at the sound of her voice, with a mighty push that sent Gentilla backward upon the floor, Susan wrenched Flip from her grasp, and turned and faced the window.

“Put down your doll,” commanded Grandmother. “Now, go upstairs to your room and wait there for me.”

It was a miserable Susan whom Grandmother joined a few moments later. Without a word, Mrs. Whiting washed the hot face and hands, and helped Susan make ready for bed.

Downstairs she put Gentilla into the hammock, she herself lay down on the couch, and the afternoon quiet was unbroken as they all refreshed themselves with a long nap.

When Susan woke, and saw Grandmother standing by her bedside, she stretched out her arms and laid her penitent head upon Grandmother’s soft shoulder.

“I don’t know what did it,” said Susan at last, when she had whispered for several moments in Grandmother’s ear. “I meant to be good. I was trying so hard.” And Susan pensively put out her tongue and caught a tear rolling slowly down her cheek.

“Well, Susan, take my advice,” said Grandmother sensibly, “and don’t try to train Gentilla any more. It is all most of us can do to take care of ourselves, and we think Gentilla is a nice little girl just as she is now, don’t we?”

Susan nodded soberly. Much nicer than Susan Whiting, she thought, as she remembered slapping and pushing and knocking Gentilla down.

But she brightened when Grandmother added:

“Hurry now and dress yourself. We are all invited over to Mrs. Vane’s for tea, Grandfather and all. And you are going to wear your new dress with the little pink flowers. I put the last stitch in it for you not five minutes ago.”